The Alagaësian Mozaic
by Virodeil
Summary: Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.
1. Black

The Alagaësian Mozaic  
By: Eärillë

Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.

Prompt 1: Black  
or  
The Dead Land

Rating: Soft-R  
Warnings: implied character death, sensitive topics related to death and revenge  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Family, Horror, Tragedy  
Timeline: the first year of the Dragon Wars  
Location: outside of Teirm  
Characters: Anurin, Beleth, Blödhgarm (by other name: Mírden)Eragon I, Erisdar, Gilderien, Kuthien, OCs, Rhûnön, Vándil, Wyrden (by other name: Aelfen), Yaela  
Point of View: _First-Person Limited:_ Eragon I  
Word Count: 600

Author's Notes: There is too little information about the Dragon Wars and the life (and possible death) of Eragon I and Bid'Daum. You may consider this AU, but I would rather consider it my version of gapfiller for canon, myself.

The Dead Land  
By: Eärillë

The land before me is no longer recogniseable: charred and black and dead and smelling both like brimstone and ashes.

Or perhaps, I am just smelling all the bodies that were burnt by the dragons here.

The _living_ bodies – and one of those defenders was my _mother_.

The ground is still hot beneath the thin soles of my leather shoes. The black, ashy land before me is still steaming with greyish fume.

My mother was here, is here still, unrecogniseable and unseparable from the other millions of charcoal particles.

She and many other mothers – and some of the fathers – chose to be here, in our old encampment, to head off a major attack from the dragons, to save the children – _me_ – us – and to ensure that the rest of our people could flee to a better, more defendable, more hidden place.

They are _all_ dead now: just a mixture of black, fuming ashes spread on this plot of no-longer-vertile soil.

Anurin, Alesa, Solion, Devonid, Argeceila, Eilas, Yaela, Aelfen, Mírden, Sifrea, Sélys, Edrien, Erisdar, Kiamordí, Eldanvír, Izlaerin, Vinnás, Visíra, Vándil, Yuviel – they are all keening silently, they are all little children like me, they are all by my side, we are all _here_.

My throat vibrates. My own keening voice joins the fray.

Wrapped and clinging around my left leg, Aya – Ervaya, my little sister – is for once silent; just five years old, a baby, and already without her mother.

I would prefer chasing her up and down the hilly forests and in and out of the caves and hollows than enduring such a solemn silence, such a deep grief, from such a small child.

And it was _all_ because of the dragons.

I ball my fists, wish to be angry, wish to take revenge –

But I cannot.

We have not been entirely faultless. And what use will it be, returning violence with violence – returning fire with fire?

Only ashes on the ground, on the dead land, on the land of the dead.

Eyes on me: sharp eyes, heavy gazes: from my sides, from my back – my remaining family aside from Second-Sister Ervaya: Father, Second-Aunt Rhûnön, First-Brother Kuthien, Second-Brother Lethion, First-Sister Alenya, and her mate Not-Brother Beleth.

"This must be stopped." First-Brother Kuthien: hissing, venomous, intense: like mixing fire with water.

"They shall regret it. None of them shall be alive by the end of this season." Second-Brother Lethion: growling, vowing, spitting: like a hungry, crackling flame.

"Weapons. We need weapons to defeat them. We _need_ to defeat them. Mere spears cannot contest with their unnatural abilities." Second-Aunt Rhûnön: passionate, but too calm, unnerving: like an inferno ready to blow up.

First-Sister Alenya is panting, choking, gagging, unable to say anything; and even Not-Brother Beleth is in a similar state. (But of course, Mother loved him as though he were her own son, and he adored her with just as much ferver.) But words are indeed not sufficient to describe the roiling heat of incinerating emotions that I can feel – that I am feeling – coming out of their presences.

I imagine that it might be similar to what Mother and her fellow 'decoys' were experiencing where I am standing now.

I gag and choke.

But Father just stands right behind me, with his arms wrapped around himself as if he were chilled, and I can sense _nothing_ from him, as if he were a void, the Void – the point after implosion from extreme heat, colourless and smelling of burning, like from one of First-Brother Kuthien's experiments.

Void and black and exhausted by burning, like the land here now.

The dead land.


	2. Red

The Alagaësian Mozaic  
By: Eärillë

Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.

Prompt 2: Red  
or  
The Outside of Blood

Rating: Heavy-R  
Warnings: graphic and disturbing thoughts and imagery (Do not read, if you are squimmish about blood and gore.)  
Genres: Character Study, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Spiritual, Supernatural  
Timeline: aftermath of the Battle of the Burning Plains  
Location: the Burning Plains  
Characters: Angela, Arya, Elva, Eragon II, Gretta, Murtagh, Nasuada, Orrin, Saphira II, Solembum, Thorn  
Point of View: _First-Person Limited:_ Elva  
Word Count: 1,543

Author's Notes: Firstly, a repeat of the above warning: _Do not_ read if you are squimmish about blood and gore. Secondly, this particular piece is meant to be a story-gift for , for all the encouragement and opinions and discussion times he has provided me thus far. (Thank you so much, RF!) And last, this piece was inspired by Echo Sackette's work, "Purple and Gold," by which reading I began to fall in love with Elva. And I hope that I might spread the love now at least by some small measure.

The Outside of Blood  
By: Eärillë

The ground _was_ blackish and brownish and greenish and pockmarked with eternal fires which expelled noxious fumes.

The ground _is_ fresh-red and smelling and tasting like blood and pockmarked with eternal fires which expell noxious fumes.

Red, fresh-red. They say it is blood, they say it is disgusting, they say it is horrifying, they say it is noisome. Many women shriek upon seeing it, and many men quail in silent dread – wondering if it will come out of their bodies next. (Even Eragon was unnerved, when he visited this land just now.)

But we cannot live without it.

And I cannot live without _feeling_ and _tasting_ and _experiencing_ it _intimately_ ever since Eragon's curse took my life away.

Red: it is only the surface, the outside of it, a mere colour.

It can turn black, can turn blue, can turn green, can turn yellow, or even transparent. (Blue … like Saphira.)

But the inside is always the same: colourless, scentless, teeming with life, teeming with hope, filling up the flesh of a body like water in a rubber doll that Orrin gave me last week, which I then added with flour and bread-crums and stripped grain-stalks that I had requested from Gretta.

She – _they_ – asked me: Gretta, Orrin, Nasuada, Angela, even Arya; as if my concerns were theirs to poke around.

Gretta stared wide-eyed at me as if she had raised a monster, then fainted. Orrin excused himself hurriedly from my tent and I could hear him puke outside. Nasuada stared dumbfounded at me with mouth agape like an idiot. Arya looked … un-elf-like, with all the emotions filling up her eyes and twisting up her face. Only Angela who _only_ sighed and gave me a huge hug, weeping silently all the while.

Because I told them the _truth_: the skin (the rubber) was fine, the water (the blood) was fine, but I needed the _flesh_.

Because flesh and blood _always_ go together.

Flesh is saturated with blood, and blood is saturated with flesh.

And there is much of this pair of twins painting this sad land …

But there were more, before it all dried up – half-way, at least – on the hot, fuming soil.

And I _experienced_ it all, when they were torn out of those no-longer-insouled bodies.

I kneel by one large patch that is still wet and deep, put my hand into it, bring it to my nose and lips, scent it, taste it.

Different. Wrong.

Fleshy blood, bloody flesh, but there is also little particles of soil in it.

There is no dirt in a living body. (I wonder what those spiteful expressions people like to spout out, then … )

A hand grasps mine gently; a black handkerchief materialises into my view, wipes at the red liquid on my bone-white skin, wipes it away, transfers it to the black cloth and makes the red turn black.

Tears – not my tears – replace it, and they are also wiped away.

I look up.

Angela's eyes meet mine: brown, warm, unjudging, unquestioning.

_Unquestioning_, yes. I like it. I crave it.

Arya cajoled me with many words and many ploys, wanted me to talk.

Saphira simply grabbed me when I was walking and flew me around for a while in one huge blue clawed paw, wanted to daunt me into talking to her when Arya's tactics had met with failure. (Eragon agreed to that treatment, that _demon_ – but I kept my silence anyway.)

Nasuada _insisted_ that I talk. (Oh, how guilt-ridden she was! and I relished it as long as it lasted, which was not long at all, really.)

Orrin was too unnerved with my new silence to approach me. (Ah, good, that, _relieving_.)

Gretta smothered me, bribed me with my favourite foods, coaxed me with babyish concepts and words to talk, to sleep, to eat, to _play_. (Hah! Play?!)

But neither Angela nor Solembum tried to make me talk, tried to talk to me, and I am _grateful_ for their silence.

They do not know – cannot know – the extent of what the curse has put me under thus far, and they do not attempt to pretend – or even _assume_ – that they know.

I reach out my hands. She picks me up, cradles me gently, wraps me completely within the folds of her cape, walks away.

I close my eyes. But red is still in my view.

A different red now: red of scales, red of an _entire_ sword, red in someone's consciousness, but not red on the outside – no, no, not the outside, not the superficial red of blood that can change easily, too easily.

I send her the image. She flinches, but still say nothing; revulsed by the image, but not by me, not by _them_ also. (Good.)

Horse whinnying, horse trotting – galloping now – away, Solembum in cat-form purring and rubbing himself against my cape-covered back, Angela humming and wrapping me in a loose embrace with her arms.

I do not know how long we are riding. I do not know where we are going – but the clustered pains and concerns and miseries of the multitude soldiers of both the Varden and the Empire are receeding quickly from my mind, and I am glad of it regardless.

Solembum is contacting somebody with a spear of mental shout that manages to startle me a little, make me stir and shift. But Angela is as placid as usual, and so I do not pay any mind to it. (It is good for once to be detached from things, to be aware that their concerns are not mine.)

But then the horse's pace is reduced to a trot, to a walk, and at last to a halt; and Solembum is jumping down, followed by Angela, and I am jolted a little as her boots touches the ground.

We have … arrived?

Red, red – inside-red, not outside-red, not superficial, not ephemeral.

I twist around in Angela's arms, look up at the man, look up at the dragon.

Not-superficial-red, not-ephemeral-red.

"What do you want of me, Witch? I'm sure you are not here to ask for blessings from me for that child?" Mocking, harsh, bitter – _disappointed_, _pained_, _grieved_.

Too much red. I cannot see him – them – any longer. Too much red, gagging, choking.

"Well, no, lad, of course not." The blunt, snippy, frank, barbed Angela; not the placid, thoughtful, quiet, helpful Angela. "She has gone through much because of someone else's _blessings'_ after all. We won't add up to her misery, yes?"

"We meant you no harm. We still mean you no harm." Solembum, in his human form, sounding so close to where my legs are dangling helplessly, uselessly. "She wanted to meet with you, and so that was all that we asked of you. You promised us temporary truce, so we did in return."

Too much talking. Too much red. The red is spreading wider now, thickening, choking him, choking me, gagging _us_.

I kick and flail free from Angela's arms, dash blindly forward, collide with a pair of strong boot-clad legs smelling like battle, like blood – the superficial red, cling to them even as they falter, staggering.

"Well, pick her up, you dolt. She won't harm you. After all, she was the one who requested to meet with you – not in so many words too. Rather like when Nasuada visited you, eh?" Barbed Angela, sharply-playful Angela. (Can you not please stop for a moment, stupid witch? Can you not see that he is drowning in red now? But oh no, I 'forget': _nobody_ else can but me.)

Gentle fingers, tender fingers, hesitant fingers, unaccustomed to children, unaccustomed to kindness, unaccustomed to closeness. But they touch me regardless, run briefly through my hair, run briefly down the sides of my face.

A big, rough nose nuzzles my back softly, then retreats.

Shaky-but-strong arms pick me up gingerly, press me in a loose embrace against a heaving chest.

I wind my arms around the rattling, contracting throat, the clammy, taut neck.

I bury my face into the side of the neck, bury myself – willingly this time – into the not-superficial-red.

I keen. He keens.

For the first time ever, I am not the 'empathic' one, but somebody else. And they say he has no grain of empathy in his blackened soul. (Why "grain" anyway? And his soul is _red_, too red in fact, raw, not black.)

But the not-superficial-red is receeding now, lightening, softening.

I lift up my head, press my cheek against the clammy and tear-wet wider, strong-boned cheek. I lift myself up away from the not-superficial-red.

Which is now just a colour, superficial, like lilies and roses and orchids and blood and Nasuada's gown when she visited Murtagh for the first time.

No longer 'interesting' – and choking and gagging and too deeply red, too inherently red.

– Perhaps superficial, ephemeral red is better then, in some cases? (And the big, rough nose is nuzzling the back of my head and sending me a waft of warm air, as if agreeing with me … ) –

And they are _all_ wrong: Nasuada, Eragon, Saphira, Orrin, Gretta, even Angela: Sometimes, I do not need prompting to help people, outside of how the curse works on me.

Because they, too, just mostly see and understand the surface, the _outside_.


	3. Tan

The Alagaësian Mozaic  
By: Eärillë

Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.

Prompt 3: Tan  
or  
Fearsome Dirt

Rating: PG  
Warnings: implied brutality in battle  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort  
Timeline: The Fall of the Riders: the Battle of Dorú Araeba  
Location: outside Dorú Araeba  
Characters: Glaerun, Glaerun's dragon  
Point of View: _First-Person Limited:_ Glaerun  
Word Count: 210

They always mocked my dragon, my beloved, said that she looks just like a plot of unappealing land, a cur of the dragon race, a shame. But she is beautiful to me: like a sandy beach finely and thoroughly strewn with diamond dust of high quality. She is of tan hue, glittering like ice-covered sandy soil, clean and earthy and majestic in her own way. Just perfect, really, to me, and that is all that matters in the end.

And now they all _fear_ her, fear us. Those peacock-like shams who call themselves Dragon Riders cannot _fight_, cannot even survive properly without their comfortable amenities. They _fall down_ before her, before us, one by one – giving up on the face of a flying, fire-breathing, clawed-and-spiked sand-dune.

They do not dare mock her tan colouring, mock me in turn through her. She is awesome, fearsome, if nameless now, and they admit it _by action_; and after all, action speaks _much_ louder than words, does it not?

They called her dull and lifeless, lack-lustre. They called me "Dirt Rider," a "Forsworn," and a "filthy human" to boot.

I call her my earthy beauty. And I call myself Glaerun the _real_ Dragon Rider.

Because after all, even a dragon cannot just fly forever.


	4. Sky-Blue

The Alagaësian Mozaic  
By: Eärillë

Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.

Prompt 4: Sky-Blue  
or  
Deserving

Rating: PG  
Warnings: sensitive topics  
Genres: Character Study, Drama, Fantacy  
Timeline: Book 2 of _The Inheritance Cycle_ (_Eldest_)  
Location: Ellesmëra  
Characters: Eragon II, Saphira II, Vanir  
Point of View: _First-Person Limited:_ Vanir  
Word Count: 349

Author's Notes: No offence meant to those who love Vanir (like A Ghost Who Walks, for instance) although I must admit that I do not like him much. Despite everything, I tried my best to portray him as neutrally as I could here. What is shown here is what is exactly in his mind, as I got it, no more and no less. Interpretations can differ, and I respect diversity, so please think and say as you wish.

Deserving  
By: Eärillë

I have a dragon, a gorgeous being whom I name Nainen for her brightness, to which she has agreed heartily. Her scales are as light and bright and soft as the sky in summer. When she flies, she can execute both a graceful glide and a fierce streak, blending almost perfectly with the majestic, vast, eternal expanse of the sky in any way – save that she glitters like dew hanging in mid-air, has claws, and can breath fire (which the sky thankfully cannot). And when I am riding atop her, it is as if I am flying without any support in thin air.

The elves praise her for her rarefied beauty and the dragons admire and envy her camouflaging advantage. The humans and dwarves, superstitious bunches that they are, have an irrational fear of her: the queen of the sky. (But who cares about those stupid, silly people's opinion, anyway?)

She is a legend in the vaunted Order of Dragon Riders; and I, having the virtue of being her partner-for-life, is exalted in turn.

But like the blue, blue sky, she is untouchable. And as eternal as the sky is, she remains _eternally_ in my dreams.

I wish I were of age when the last batches of dragon eggs were circulated throughout Alagaësia and Du Weldenvarden. But what hope would I have, if even the reality has gone against me: the deep-blue egg of autumn sky that Brom saved from Galbatorix's clutches refused to hatch for me, when Arya Dröttningu circulated the egg around Ellesmëra years ago.

And now I found out that _she_ has hatched for a puny _human_.

_Pathetic_.

And I envy that cur of a Rider too, I cannot deny it.

It is as if they are taunting me now with their mere presences. And she was terribly _angry_ with _me_ when I questioned _justly_ about her Rider's fitness of being the spearhead of our oncoming attacks against Galbatorix's forces.

And the sky that watches us – watches _me_ – silently from overhead is cold, the ice-blue of winter …

I cannot even take consolation from my dream.


	5. Forest-Green

The Alagaësian Mozaic  
By: Eärillë

Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.

Prompt 5: Forest-Green  
or  
When Silence Is Home

Rating: G  
Warnings: implied neglect of a small child by a caretaker  
Genres: Character Study, Family, Fluff  
Timeline: Murtagh's early childhood: 2 years old  
Location: Morzan's stronghold: northwest of Leona Lake, foothills of the Spine  
Characters: Morzan, Murtagh, OC  
Point of View: _First-Person Limited:_ Murtagh  
Word Count: 1,744

Author's Notes: This piece is _my_ interpretation of how the relationship went between Morzan and Murtagh before everything went apart. Think what you will, but you are forewarned. And it is … fluffy; you are forewarned as well, I hope.

When Silence Is Home  
By: Eärillë

I shift, clutch Ruby closer to me.

I shift again, curl up deeper under the blanket, try to hide underneath it with Ruby. (But Nanny tucked the edges too tightly. It is quite uncomfortable.)

I want to whimper out a plea for comfort, for a meal (hungry … ), but nobody will hear me. Nobody is here after all.

It is so silent here, so cold, so empty. I hate it. I fear it. The bed is soft and warm and fluffy, but I want _somebody_, not the bed. It is too large and too tall for me anyway: strange, empty, fearsome.

Nanny is gone (but I do not mind that, because she can be quite boring and strict and cold at the same time), Mummy is gone too (already for a loooong time now, I kind of miss her), and Papap …

Ah, Papap is _home_!

But dare I go to him? Perhaps he is sleeping now (like Nanny ordered me to do before she bustled away some time ago?)? Papap does not like to be disturbed. Papap can be _very_ angry if he is disturbed.

But Papap has been away for a loooooong time too, and I have been missing him just as much as I do Mummy.

Papap usually lets me sit or sleep with him too if I am not disturbing him with "inane questions" (What is "inane" anyway?) and too much talk and too much shifting and too much asking

Papap is waaaaay better than this bed. Well, Papap and Mummy and Ruby; but Ruby is here with me and Mummy is still gone and Papap is _home_.

I hold my breath and crawl out slowly from under the blanket. Afraid, so afraid, too silent, too empty, too cold.

I peek out over the edge of the blanket with Ruby. (Sorry for clutching you so tightly, Ruby, but I am so afraid! You can understand that, yes? You are my dragon after all, and Papap said dragons and Riders got a very, very special thing between them. And I am your Rider!)

There is nothing and nobody around, just like before. The lantern by the bed is shaded, and the shadows on the grey walls frighten me.

And the bed is barred …

The bed is barred with those cold sharp-curly-not-like-flowers-not-like-leaves iron "fences" which Nanny only puts around it when I am naughty and talk back to her when she is angry or irked at me. (She changed them from the smooth iron lines some time ago because I could climb past them to the floor; but this set is _painful_ to climb and I already tried it two nights ago, before Papap arrived home.) But I was not naughty today! She said not to bother her and I obeyed, she said to eat those disgusting, throw-upping meals and I did, she said not to bother Papap and I obeyed (so hard though!). So why now?

And I want to _go_!

I whimper – cannot help it! How can I go to Papap if the bed is barred? I cannot climb past it! And Nanny wore fine clothes too when she tucked me in, so she must be far away from here with her friends right now.

But Papap's rooms are not so far from here, if I remember it correctly.

But Papap does not like to be disturbed! And Papap does not like noises too.

But I want to be gone from here _very_ much.

I want Papap _very_ much.

I scramble across the bed with Ruby, put a hand on the iron thing, flinch back – so _cold_! – fall on my bum on the bed with Ruby.

There is a crieking noise under the bed.

The shadows on the grey walls are shifting.

I howl. "_Papaaaaaaap!_"

A clattering and clanking noise far away, and then a door is slamming, and then boots are running, running here. But I Ignore it all. I want Papap _now_ – try to climb up the sharp-iron-curlies – _Awwwwh!_ "Papap … "

Must not cry, may not cry, Papap does not like me crying. But so afraid, so painful – want to go _out_ – want Papap. Papap wears green, green is good, not grey, not black, not so cold, green is nice.

Too painful. I fall back again on the bed.

Louder, closer criek.

I choke, sob, whimper. Cannot help it! Papap, so afraid …

Boots clattering in the hall outside, sounds like thunder.

The door is slammed open. I squeak, choke, sob, whimper, try to go away – I do not know where – but fall on my face on the bed, nearly lose Ruby.

Silence.

Sound of sniffing.

Only Papap does that. Papap likes to sniff me when I am dirty, when I am clean, when I have just woken up, when I have just taken a bath.

I whimper, but relax a little, cannot lift myself and Ruby up though. "Papap … " Please, please, Papap, bring me away.

Papap's voice growling, so _angry_. "Papap … " Afraid now, so afraid, afraid of Papap. I have _disturbed_ him, must have.

Metal ringing against metal, so _loud_ – clanking, clanging on the floor – but Papap hates noises, does he not? So why –

Hot hands around me, lifting me up – I shriek, terrified – Ruby is torn away from me – I wail –

"Silence."

I choke, whimper, sob a little. Cannot help it, Papap.

Murmured words that I cannot hear well.

Warmth on my hands and feet.

No pain.

Where is the pain? It was so painful!

I stop crying: confused, surprised. "Papap?"

"Hush."

But I am in Papap's arms now, although Ruby is not with me. Good, nice. And Papap is wearing dark green – almost black, but still green, still nice.

Papap bends down a little, I peek around his tickling hair to see what he is doing, but clutch at his dark-green shirt, do not want to let go.

But Papap just picks up his red-sharp-pointy-thing which has somehown ended up on the bed. (And where is the fence that I tried to climb up?) And Ruby is too far away from us …

"Ruby, Papap?" I plead.

"Hush," he grumbles. I fall silent. Do not want to disturb Papap now. But Ruby must be lonely here when we are gone, just like when Nanny left me all alone …

"Papap … "

"Hush, lad," he snaps; then he straightens up, puts his red-sharp-pointy-thing at his side, puts both of his arms around me, and walks out of the scary room. I flinch, curl up in his arms, look away at his shirt. Green, good green, peaceful green, nice, not frightening.

He does not talk, no more, just carries me past the cold, empty, grey halls and puts me in his lap when he sits in his comfy dark-green fluffy armchair in his "study" room.

One of his arms leaves me, does things on the desk before us, sounds like papers. I peek out over his other arm, but clutch at his shirt still.

Papers, yes, lots and lots of them. But there is a plate of bananas too near the edge of the huge dark-green desk.

My stomach is growling, like Papap when in my room just now. Cannot help it! I _hate_ that weird porridge-soup-like-thing Nanny always gives me, and thankfully she did not give me much of it this evening, but now I am feeling warm and nice and rather good, and so I feel quite hungry.

I reach out a hand at the plate – but it is too far away!

Papap's hand stops going all around the desk and the papers and the tubes and the books. He sighs, but does not sound as angry as before, does not sound sharp and cold and irked like Nanny's sighs are too.

He takes a banana and peels it half-way and puts it in his other hand and puts the peeled end in my mouth. Then with the banana-free hand he opens a huge book with odd straight lines before us and several tubes too, and begins to write on the book. (I am beginning to learn to write too! But Papap writes so fast … I like watching his hand write and work and wander about on the desk busily like a hummingbird in Mummy's gardens.)

I nibble on the banana and lean back against Papap's belly, put my arms around Papap's banana-carrying arm (Ruby is not here, and I am sad for him, but Papap's arm is just as comfortable and warm and cuddly – sorry, Ruby), look around and smile at the "study" room with my head on Papap's chest. I like it here, I like it now, Papap.

It is rather dark and shadowy here too, but it is all many colours of green, and I do not mind it. It makes me remember when Papap and sometimes Mummy bring me into the forest near our home in the late afternoon. I like forests.

It is silent too, but not cold, not empty, and I like it _a lot_. The little rustles and scratches Papap's hand makes do not frighten me. I can see the source of all those sounds; and it is Papap anyway.

And Papap is here. Papap is fearsome (people seem to rather fear him, and I too sometimes) and strong and likes me (well, he never minds feeding me or carrying me or letting me sit in his lap for however long when he is not so busy like this, not like Nanny, so I take it that he likes me a lot) and he is being both my chair and my bed now, so I am not afraid.

Papap is silent even though his hand is busy with things, and I am silent and slowly bite-licking and chew-grinding and swallowing little bits of banana, and it is rather dark beyond the desk, but everything is green though shadowed, and I like it all; no Nanny too, no fearsome huge-and-tall bed, no black-grey shadows, no sharp-curly-iron-weird-thing bed-bars, no weird gooey bland meals too.

I am full, and sleepy.

I give a last bite-lick and chew-grind and swallow to the half-eaten banana, shift a little, curl up, put my cheek and ear against Papap's chest, listen to the not-so-silent "dug-dug" and "rush-rush" in it, listen and watch a little as Papap finishes the banana for me, smile hugely when _all_ Papap's arms go snugly around me.

I do not mind this set of bed-bars.


	6. White

The Alagaësian Mozaic  
By: Eärillë

Slivers of colourful mosaic about the minor/forgotten characters living in Alagaësia or around it at one time, made on the prompts taken from and inspired by the "Colours" Bingo Card in B2MeM 2012.

Prompt 6: White  
or  
Fire That Does Not Burn

Rating: R (M)  
Warnings: character death, semi-suicide  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Friendship, Horror, Supernatural, Tragedy  
Timeline: the fourth year of the Dragon Wars  
Location: near Du Weldenvarden  
Characters: Eragon I (Reg), Vándil (Vánë)  
Point of View: _First-Person Limited:_ Vándil  
Word Count: 1,937

Reference: {{"He is Gilderien theWise, Prince of House Miolandra, wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, and guardian of Ellesméra since the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka, our war with the dragons."}} Arya to Saphira, in _Eldest_

Author's Notes: I am not using the elven name suffixes here because of two things: (1.) I do not know much of them, and (2.) it does not feel natural when one is in a character's head in contrast to being just the narrator. And also for the latter reason, none of the terms in this piece are in the Ancient Language, although they adhere to the English translation in canon. Apologies in advance for the outrage. And as for the character I chose for this piece: I was always intrigued by the very line I quoted in the reference section above. "_Wielder_ of the _White Flame_ of Vándil." Wielder …

Fire That Does Not Burn  
By: Eärillë

Admired-Kuthien taught me much about magic. No, not the usual sort that people who have been born with this talent can learn, that people _usually_ learn. They only learn the surface layers; we learn the depths.

Admired-Kuthien: he taught me about the wild magic that saturates this land and everything and everyone that live from it, he taught me about the energy that everything is made up of, even our very bodies, and he taught me many more.

But he is most likely dead now, and Young-Man Lethion is missing and probably also dead, and the war is not stopping any time soon, and many more people will die as the result: from tooth, from claw, from tail …

From fire …

Like Mother and Father, three years ago, like Reg's and Aya's mother also, like … so many more.

Fire from the outside and inside has taken people that I know and those that I love from me. (People say that Admired-Kuthien went mad at last and barricaded himself in a huge rock formation and killed himself and his companions there, and so now that place is called "the Gates of Death." I do not wish to believe them; but indeed Admired-Kuthien was too silent and distant even to me some time before he went away and never came back.) I should hate it, perhaps, seeing how it pertains only to loss to me thus far. But I cannot help it: I admire it, how it can give warmth and light and protection even as it burns out into nothingness, sacrificing itself for the safety and comfort of those that depend on it. Not all fires are bad.

Reg does not like it. He does not like my theory, my conviction. His mind is still in the three-year-ago Dead Land. But Reg is my best friend now, after Honoured-Gilderien has adopted me into his family, seeing that I had neither parent nor relative to take care of me then, and I wish to _show_ him what I see, to make him see what I see. People should not dwell in the past, when there is the present to survive in and the future to fight for.

And I believe that I have the perfect means for us to survive the present and the future; or at least, I have the means for _him_ and the rest of _our_ family to do so. But firstly, I must convince him of this positive side of the thing he despises.

And now, as we are outside the forest that has been our new encampment, is the perfect chance. Reg and I snuck out from Ceris to visit the Dead Land; we departed some time ago, with only Married-Young-Woman Alenya being in the know. We are nearing the forest again at present, but it is still far enough that we will hopefully not be overheard by anybody else. We are huddled under a rocky overhang by what used to be a younger, smaller front section of the forest, which is now just a stretch of a-little-ashy grassland after the dragons burnt all the trees in search of our hideout two years ago. Reg is relaxing beside me and drinking from his wooden water-flask that Young-Man Lethion made for him four years ago as a begetting-day gift. He is more easy to talk to and to convince when he is relaxed and content.

Sadly, however, I do not really know how to bring the subject up.

"Reg?" I murmur softly to him.

His only response is a short hum.

"Do you still hate fire?" _Great_. A 'perfect' way to approach the subject …

He must be thinking of a similar line, for he looks at me with confused incredulity written all over his sharp features. And he retorts, "Are you mad? Look at there." He waves at the grassland stretched out before us. "And we have just been gone from _the Dead Land_ also. What do you think?"

There is not even a sliver of his usual passion in neither his speech nor his gestures now; his contempt of fire has solidified into cold, firm hatred.

I falter.

"But … how if the fire doesn't only burn and destroy?" I grope around for a reason, or even a cheap excuse, just to kindle that passion up again. (A passionate Reg is familiar, not unnerving like this, and thus I shall not flounder in our conversation by the sheer strangeness of his coldness.)

But he does not relent his cool, disbelieving, baffled look on me. He waves a hand again at the grassland before us, then at the general direction of the west, to where we know the Dead Land lies. "Fire always burns. It always destroys," he states blandly. His tone is _too_ calm, dead, as if he is just a shell now, a campfire without the fire itself – _wrong_.

"But how if I am the fire?" I ask him, holding my breath, apprehensive. Oh, I have prepared for such eventuality: I have soaked my body with spells for energy-conversion and protection and defence, I have even assimilated how a dragon's fire can add to it. But I would like to know if Reg will appreciate it, appreciate _me_, later.

His gaze turns sharper and concerned, as if he truly believes that I have gone mad. (Or perhaps I have indeed? I do not know, and do not care anyway.) "What are you talking about, Vánë?"

"How if I am the fire, Reg?" I repeat, smiling hopefully at him. "How if I am the fire, and I do not burn you?"

He takes another swig from his water-flask. I poke at his side with the tips of my fingers. He chokes and sputters and glares at me briefly, then looks away.

"Will you hate me too if I am somehow becoming some sort of fire?" I insist. "Will you shun me, although I don't burn?" Afar, I can hear the thunderous, heavy flapping of a dragon's wing. (I am sure Reg can hear it too, for he tenses and stares wide-eyed at the expanse of sky above the grassland, his sea-green orbs darkening with roiling emotions.) We do not have much time left … It is now or never, as surely the dragon will spot us soon.

I tug at his arm. He tears his gaze away from the sky reluctantly and transfers it, with all the emotions in it, to me. "If you don't burn," he says, affirms, in an even-more-reluctant tone. "But I'd rather you be a person than a fire."

I beam at him. "Great!" I whisper. "Then I'll be the best fire ever."

He rolls his eyes; but he is smiling nonetheless, albeit bleakly, as his hand goes around the green haft of Niernen, the Death Spear handed down to him by Young-Man Lethion.

The flapping wingbeats are getting louder, closer.

"You and others in our family shall be the only ones who can wield me, and you all shall be safe when I am around," I continue to say, trying to ignore the frisson of fear on the certain knowledge that I am going to die soon, trying to complete the enchantments just by mental workings only meanwhile, trying to convince him that it all will be worth the sacrifice, trying to convince myself that it is for the best.

Mother and Father are gone, and I shall soon see them again … perhaps.

I have been adopted into the House of Miolandra, yes, but war is not condusive for family-bonding, and I still feel distant and alone towards most of Reg's remaining family members save for himself. Sad, really, but it is the fact, and I am exhausted of the cold loneliness by now.

I need warmth.

I shall become _the_ warmth, warmth and safety and protection for the family who have been so kind to adopt me, I hope. Even if I cannot warm myself, I may rest easy knowing that my last ties to this war-torn land are safe and not in danger of being burnt or chopped into pieces by our enemies.

Reg gives me a glance laden with concern and rising worry, worry for me, for my sanity perhaps. "Stop your morbid daydreams, Vánë," he hisses, his grip on Niernen tightening and shaking a little. "We're about to be burnt to a crisp by a dragon and you're talking about being 'the best fire ever'?!"

The enchantments are finished.

The dragon is visible now, huge and iridescently white as the pearls some of the adults gathered from the sea around here, and also brought all along right from Alalía. (So beautiful, but deadly … ) And it seems to have spotted us, for it is diving down towards the grassland near our shelter and opening its jaw and extending its claws.

I touch Reg's shoulder. I can only dimly note that my hand is sweaty and trembling.

He rises to his feet and extend Niernen before him as both a weapon and a shield. His mouth is slightly open, perhaps in preparation to resite the words that shall activate the full potential of the Death Spear.

I rise also, but weaponless, and ready to dash out to the open instead.

"Promise me something?" I murmur to him, feeling my breaths quicken, feeling my heart pounding frantically, feeling the enchantments binding my entire being, feeling my mind quail on the thought of what I am going to do soon, feeling the heavy, hate-filled gaze of the dragon on us. He grunts. I forge on. "Name one of your children or your loved ones after me, if you survive – if you would? Just so that you remember me and I'll live on through him? You won't be so lonely then."

He nods. Niernen shakes as his hand spasms a little.

I smile at him. But he does not see it. His gaze is fully on the dragon now, and his hand is ready to throw the Death Spear at it.

"And another, please?" I say as I take a sprint-start crouch. He snorts, but stays close-mouthed. I am not discouraged – cannot be now, _may not_ be. "Promise me you are going to wield me well, that you won't fear me? I already promised you, I shall guard and watch over you and the rest of our family. (No dragon shall touch you while you are with me.) But I can't do it if you're afraid of me."

He tears his gaze from the dragon at last, looking wide-eyed with stark horror and comprehension on his face at me.

My sight is blurry with tears, but I give him a smile nonetheless. "Farewell," I say, then dash out.

Heat around me, inside of me, accompanied by a bright white light and a roaring noise.

Burning pain, numbed by its sheer intensity.

My body is shifting, unravelling, turning into sparks of a spelled fire.

The dragon's fire merges with my own, lending it immunity against the same source and beyond, lending it the pearly colour I considered beautiful just now, lending it strength and endurance byond what I could do by myself.

My enchantments are _working_.

Only the last thing to do.

`_Let me be fire unburning for those whom I choose. Let me be the defenders from flame and violence of any kind. Let me be the warmth and protector when needed. Let me exist as long as there are those who still need and wish for me. I: Vándil the White Flame._`

And now peace, silence, warmth.

It is finished.

I am finished.


End file.
